Rock dismounted and left his sorrel standing on dropped bridle reins, as securely anchored in the utilitarian fashion of the plains as if he had been tied to a post. He paused a moment at the door to grin. On this piece of plain oak some wag had lately scrawled in red chalk the word “Holy” between “The” and “Trinity.” It was not inappropriate, Rock knew. The Trinity Bank of Fort Worth was owned and operated by three men who were old and wise and upright, as near to a state of holiness as bankers in the cow country ever got. That is to say, “Uncle Bill” Sayre, who was president, manager, and chief stockholder, and Marcus Proud, and Abel Stewart were square men, whose word was as good and, indeed, sometimes went farther than an explicit bond.
Rock thrust his face at the first wicket in a low grille along a counter.
“Is Mr. Sayre in?”
“Did you want to see him?” The teller looked up from his work.
“If he isn’t too busy. Tell him it’s Rock Holloway.”
The man walked back a few steps and put his head inside a doorway. He beckoned Rock and indicated an opening in the counter through which Rock could enter.
When Rock reached the inner office, a tall, thin-faced man of sixty rose to greet him, shook hands, shoved forward a chair, and closed the door. Then he seated himself, smiling benignantly.
“Well, well,” said he. “Yo’ young fellows change fast. Le’s see. It’s nigh two years since I saw yo’, Rock. Yo’ favor yo’ ol’ dad mo’ and mo’ all the time. How’s yo’ mammy and Cecilia?”
“Fine,” Rock replied. “Mother says Austin suits her right down to the ground to live in. Cissy’s going to be married this fall.”
“Yo’ don’t say! Why, she ain’t but seventeen. Who to?”